


silence of the proper season

by theborogoves



Category: The Stone Roses (Band)
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, mentions of mani and robbie m
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18857086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theborogoves/pseuds/theborogoves
Summary: Still, he wishes that sound was a solid object, wishes he could drown himself in other people’s love and adoration, that it would consume him whole, maybe then he wouldn’t have to feel anything.c. 1983 - 1995





	silence of the proper season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> this is a kind of experimental thing that i tried, which basically means it's just a bunch of feelings crammed together into writing
> 
> i love you shaz! thank you for holding my hand through this, you are my muse.

eight

John stands quietly in the corner away from the others, listening as their manager went over a few last-minute details. They were all quiet, John notices. They were never quiet.

"…so just give the people a good show, and we can move on. The sooner we're out of here, the less time until we're home." They all jerk their heads in an approximation of a nod and leave the room without making eye contact, Ian trailing behind Mani, John and Robbie walking alone.

John finds his room and flops down on the bed with a huff. Next door, there is the thump of a door closing, and chatter starts up. John hears his name mentioned a few times before tuning it out completely, letting his eyes drift across the bland hotel ceiling.

The tour had started only two weeks ago, and already everything had gone to shit. He thought it was fitting, the fragile balance between them all beginning to slip away, although he supposed you couldn't lose something that you never really had.

He thinks back to when the band first started when it felt like they were the solution to every problem in the world. This feeling that had once meant everything to him, to all of them, had faded and had been scratched and torn away at until it hardly even existed.

 

 

two

John watched from his place at the piano as Ian chewed on a pen that had wandered into his mouth sometime during this particularly tricky verse. The atmosphere of their apartment was slow and lethargic, a sharp contrast to the music they were trying, and failing, to write. John pressed a few keys, the sound leaving an undiscernible lingering. He tried again and again, but every time, each note was separate from the others, existing shortly before fading away, leaving no recognizable melody or response.

“Maybe—” Ian said.

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Ian said, but he had smiled, and John had felt something loosen in his chest. Ian joined him at the piano and showed him the sparse outline of a song, John's mind unconsciously filling in the rest, like what he had been struggling to put together was right there on Ian’s page, was right there, with Ian.

He put his hands to the keys again, and out came a strain of thoughts and feelings, incomplete but nevertheless whole.

“Didn’t need to,” John said, and he was right.

 

 

four

It had been late when they had walked along some foreign street, just the two of them. They walked and walked, their steps ultimately slowing like the slowly quieting city around them, and they stopped at a bench slightly tucked out of view.

Their shoulders brushed together as they enjoyed the cool night air, a welcome change from the heat of the stage lights earlier. Occasionally, one would sneak a glance at the other, both content to pretend nothing was happening, so used to looking sideways it was almost second nature. Even through the silence, a familiar intensity flowed between them, like if their bodies were melded together, it would make one complete person, and maybe that person would never feel alone. 

Eventually, Ian nudged his shoulder with purpose, and John turned his head, properly looking at him, and saw the moonlight play on Ian’s hair.

 

 

six

John's head rattles where it rests against the band’s bus window. The bus is silent, or maybe it isn’t, John is too tired to care at this point, the weight of everything that’s happened and everything still to come pressing on his body like trying to hold up the entire world.

His mind wanders to the back of the bus where no doubt Mani and Robbie were trying their best to mind their own business, concerned for their friends, but keeping a safe distance from the ever-ticking bomb.

The concert the night before had been a disaster, four moving parts floating around in space, existing more as noise than music. Occasionally, they would scrape together, and it would feel, just for a moment, like everything was okay, and he would remember how they had something that no one else could touch. Then they would float away again, the charge between them continually pushing and pulling them apart, until John felt it would be more useful to put them in a blender just to see what happened. It would destroy them, but he knew that if it all ended tomorrow, it would have been done yesterday.

He unconsciously sneaks a glance over to Ian, sitting on the other side of the aisle, hoping to find that familiar, comforting feeling, but instead sees the portrait of a man he no longer knows. Ian is asleep, tension visible in his back and neck, music blasting defiantly from his headphones. John turns back to his own space and stares out the window; watches the landscape pass like the time that’s slipping out of his hands.

 

 

five

John had been holed up in his room at the band’s shared house for days working on new music, when Ian had suddenly burst in, determinedly walking across the room and sitting down on the bed. John didn’t even bother looking up from the desk, couldn’t face what he knew was waiting in Ian’s eyes.

“So, is this who you are now?” Ian asked quietly after a long pause.

There was absolute stillness. Ian walked out of the room.

 

 

seven

They are sitting around a table in the middle of being interviewed, and John has never felt more out of place among his bandmates. He sees the way Ian clenches his fists every time he looks in John's direction, and John is struck by the urge to get up and walk out.

The interviewer leans forward as if about to ask a particularly juicy question. “So obviously your band is much talked about, but why do you think that is? What is it about you that means so much to people?”

John sees Robbie glance around and wait for someone else to answer before eventually taking pity on the interviewer. “Well, I haven't been here as long as the others, but I see the way people are at our shows, the way they're all on the same vibe, you know?”

Mani nods his head. “People are so divided these days, it's nice for them to have something they all feel connected to.”

“I don't think the band means anything at all really,” John says like he isn’t well aware the band is the only reason they still speak to each other. “It's just music, it's not a big deal, I don't understand why people keep treating it like it is.” At this, John sees Ian clench his fists just that much tighter, but still he says nothing, keeps glaring at table.

The interviewer asks a couple more questions about their latest album before thanking them for their time and leaving. Robbie is the first to go, mumbling something about grabbing some food, and practically running away from the disaster he is leaving behind. The three of them stay at the table, contentedly ignoring each other. Mani glances between John and Ian, and John almost wishes that he would start yelling. Anything would be better than this silence that none of them can seem to break.

“So—” Mani manages to get out before stopping, looking as though he’s not sure how to continue.

“I think I’ll get something to eat too,” Ian says finally, getting up from the table. John listens to him walk away before the silence settles back in, less tension-filled but no less oppressive.

John hates this, hates how they can’t even talk to each other anymore, hates the fact that they have to talk when they used to communicate entire novels with just one look. He waits another moment, and when Mani still says nothing, he slips out of his chair, Mani’s deep sigh following him out of the room.

 

 

three

John adjusted the studio headphones, but they remained stubbornly digging into his head. He saw his bandmates do the same, and oddly enough it made him happy if only because it meant they were there, they had finally made it.

Next to him, Ian shifted on his feet in front of the microphone, chewing his lip. John strummed his guitar, and Ian looked over, giving John the chance to meet his eyes. A shared eternity passed between them, and Ian relaxed, at least enough to no longer look so constipated.

“Okay, take one, please,” the producer said.

The bass started up, and John joined in, then the drums, then Ian’s voice, a dulcet cacophony of sound filling the studio and their minds, hearts singing in perfect harmony. This is it, John thought. This is it, this is it, this is—

 

 

one

It was an entire lifetime ago, it must have been, John so far removed from that place, but he could remember it so clearly, could remember the smallest details of that moment—

“We need a singer,” John had said, carefully picking at the strings of his guitar.

“Who’s we exactly?” Ian asked, body sprawled across the couch.

“The band. Our band.”

“Didn’t know I was in a band.”

“Miracles happen every day,” John said wryly, still focused on his guitar.

The muted peace of their apartment is no longer silent as an unhurried momentum builds in the air between them. Ian sat up, twisting his body so he could see John’ face.

“Okay,” he said.

John smiled.

 

 

nine

They are scattered around backstage, waiting for the concert to start. John can hear the fans screaming outside and wonders if they realize what they’re screaming for was barely alive.

Still, he wishes that sound was a solid object, wishes he could drown himself in other people’s love and adoration, that it would consume him whole, maybe then he wouldn’t have to feel anything.

“One minute!” someone calls.

John pushes himself up from where he had been sitting against the wall and joins his bandmates. He pauses at the stage door, glancing sideways at Ian, their eyes meeting so quickly it feels like Ian isn’t even there. He looks away and steps on stage.

 

 


End file.
